An Awkwardly Poetic Moment
by Neamh
Summary: [one-shot/H+Hr] Spoilers for OotP. A week after Sirius' death, Harry finds that the comfort he seeks is in the one person he'd never expect to offer...


This lack of self-control, I fear is never-ending.  
Linkin' Park, "Crawling"  
  
An Awkwardly Poetic Moment  
  
It was an awkwardly poetic moment when he first realized she was standing before him. In fact, even though most of his thoughts were revolving around the morbid implications of Sirius'--- and even slightly his own death, Hermione stood against the glowing backdrop of the hearth and a pang of warmth began to invade his bitter coldness. It was ironic that for a relationship that barely existed this year that she had become the source of the seeping comfort.  
  
"Don't ask me if I'm okay."  
  
Her expression remained neutral to the obvious contempt lying in his voice. He wondered vaguely why she put up with his crap and that maybe he was just subconsciously testing her. Despite the 'leave me the hell alone' look on his face, her amber-colored eyes were filled with a barely hidden worry.  
  
She sat down next to him on the couch, drawling her knees to her chest.  
  
"I'm not here to ask questions, Harry," she almost snapped, grabbing the notebook that she had somehow dropped. "Lavender's having a snoring fit and I'm sure as hell not going to sleep through Pavarti's liaisons with the Hufflepuff she's been snogging all week. I just happened to fancy writing a letter."  
  
He blinked. "Oh."  
  
He watched as she opened her notebook and soon the room was filled with the crisp cracks of the fire and the swift scratching of her quill. An odd sense of understanding crept into his mind as he began to study his best friend. Hermione was unconventional, he decided. She didn't need to be Cho-beautiful or Ginny-cute, the fact that she was someone completely different than everyone else made her. She was changing too, he realized. She'd acted much quieter this year, more observant, and there were things that she seemed to just know. It was like she was growing into some sort of classic, as if she had been hiding from the world and was now ready to start showing herself piece by piece.  
  
"Who are you writing to? Victor?"  
  
She snorted, a loose strand of curls falling into her eyes. "No. We're not talking much anymore."  
  
Good, he wanted to say oddly enough.  
  
Hermione dropped her notebook on the floor, a soft thump greeting the large room. "I'm writing to my cousin in America. She lives in Las Vegas now."  
  
"It must be nice having-"  
  
She gave him a small smile and shrug. "I suppose. Haven't seen her since I was six years old. in Dublin me thinks."  
  
He looked down at his hands. This was so completely awkward. He felt ridiculous. Fifth year had been tough on all his relationships, including the one he shared with Ron and especially Hermione. Voldermont, the Order, Quidditch and the limited play due to the stupid nut of a DADA teacher, Cho, and finally. Sirius' death. No one was perfect, that was the benefit of the doubt, but this year had been hell. Granted, Ron was a guy and understood personal space a lot more. but he had regrettably cut out Hermione. even when he need her most.  
  
"I'm sorry," he spoke finally.  
  
"Whatever for?"  
  
He gave her a look as if she had lost her mind. "For being a prat."  
  
"Oh."  
  
He turned to face her. "That's it?"  
  
She titled her head to the side, strands of curls falling from the loose bun atop her head. His eyes wandered to the strap of her tank top, sliding gently against her skin. His fingers danced in mid-air, suddenly aching to touch her.  
  
Or was it because he was just a horny fifteen-year-old?  
  
"What's it?"  
  
"No yelling, no lecturing?"  
  
She chuckled. "Nope."  
  
He met her gaze finally, a warm flush spreading across his cheeks. He liked the feeling in his mind. He liked that it was different. He needed different.  
  
"Hey 'mione?"  
  
Her tank top strap drooped lower. "Hmm?"  
  
His self-control snapped and his fingers reached out, brushing achingly soft skin and pushing her strap to the top of her shoulder. His fingers slowly traced a path up her neck and finally rested on cupping her chin.  
  
"Thanks. I needed this."  
  
What exactly did this refer to?  
  
Her lips curved in a smile, disturbingly beautiful. It was as if she knew some big secret that he was completely missing. He raised an eyebrow and her grin widened further. Now he was completely convinced.  
  
"How is that you always know?"  
  
She leaned closer, their foreheads barely touching.  
  
"Maybe I'll tell you someday, Mr. Potter," she replied, grinning impishly.  
  
"Tease," he accused with a grin. It felt good to smile a bit. It felt good to be understood with no questions asked. "So then I suppose you know what's to come next?"  
  
Her eyes sparkled. "Maybe."  
  
He laughed, pulling her close. "Minx."  
  
It was then he decided to kiss her, mentally sprouting all sorts of poetic nonsense about the taste of her lips and the feel of her body against his own.  
  
He decided he like awkwardly poetic moments.  
  
* * *  
  
Fluff, fluff, and more fluff. hope you all enjoyed it! Review please. 


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